


honey honey, sugar sugar

by thewalrus_said



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bad date, Blind Date, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: Joe sighed and looked at his phone for the fifth time. No date, and no message explaining where his date was or how much longer he’d have to wait. He sighed and set the phone down again.Suddenly, a voice from behind him murmured, “Were they supposed to be here at six?”Joe looked up to see his server coming around to refill his water glass. “Yes,” he admitted.“Twenty-three minutes,” the server murmured quietly.“What?”
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 52
Kudos: 496





	honey honey, sugar sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the prompt "You’re my waiter and I’m on a really crappy date with an asshole" on a list of meet-cutes on [this](https://theladyragnell.tumblr.com/post/637699700917698560/au-scenarios-were-bad-at-dating-edition) post, and this fic sprung fully-formed into my mind. Enjoy!

Joe sighed and looked at his phone for the fifth time. No date, and no message explaining where his date was or how much longer he’d have to wait. He sighed and set the phone down again.

Suddenly, a voice from behind him murmured, “Were they supposed to be here at six?”

Joe looked up to see his server coming around to refill his water glass. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Twenty-three minutes,” the server murmured quietly.

“What?”

But before the server could answer, the door to the restaurant opened and the skinny white man Booker’d shown him a picture of came bustling through, making straight for Joe. “Terribly sorry,” he said, beaming and reaching for Joe’s hand to shake. “Had a last-minute phone call I couldn’t get out of, and then traffic was  _ awful.” _

Joe shook his hand and sat back down. “It’s alright,” he lied politely. “I don’t know how much Booker told you about me, but I’m Joe.”

“Joe,” his date said, rolling it around in his mouth like a marble. “Pleasure to meet you, Joe. I’m Merrick, of course, Steven Merrick, of Merrick Pharmaceuticals.” His voice ticked up at the end, and he had an expectant look on his face like Joe was supposed to know what that was.

“Wow,” Joe offered. “Impressive.”

Merrick beamed again. “Yes, it is, rather. Not to brag,” he added, and burst out laughing. “Well, shall we get into it?” he asked once he’d gotten ahold of himself, picking up the menu. “There must be something edible here.”

There was  _ plenty _ edible here, according to the reviews Joe had read before picking this place. It had four stars on Yelp, and plenty of raving reviews. Joe’d had his meal picked out ever since Booker had arranged the date. But Merrick’s face puckered as he scanned the menu, until he set it down with a sigh. “Well, hopefully the company will make it up,” he offered, that grin reappearing on his face. Joe gave him a smile that felt fake but apparently looked real, because Merrick rubbed his hands together and said, “Now, where’s that server of ours?”

The man in question appeared as if summoned. “Hello,” he said quietly. “I’m Nicky; I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I interest you in something to drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of your finest red wine,” Merrick said, with the distinct air of someone not expecting to be impressed.

Nicky turned to Joe. “Just keep the water coming,” Joe said. The barest hint of a smile ghosted over Nicky’s mouth, and he nodded and left again.

“So, Joe,” Merrick drawled, setting his arms on the table and leaning over them. “Remind me what you do?”

“I’m in grad school,” Joe said. “Training to be an art therapist.”

“Mmm, art therapy,” Merrick said. “Love a good popsicle stick picture frame, me.”

“That’s not actually art therapy; that’s more art in therapy,” Joe said, the familiar rant springing to his lips. But Merrick’s eyes were already vacant, and he let it drop, instead pivoting to, “Booker said you’re the CEO of a company?”

Merrick practically wiggled in his chair. “Youngest CEO in pharma. Not to brag,” he added again, a twinkle in his eye. Joe laughed politely and Merrick went on, “I decided when I was eight that I was going to make history. My teens were spent keeping an eye on the world, deciding which field would be ripe for my talents when I got old enough to get properly started.”

“And you chose Big Pharma?”

“Pssh, there’s nothing big about pharma,” Merrick said dismissively. “The real pharmaceutical movers and shakers could be seated comfortably in a room half the size of this restaurant. Hardly any competition at all, when you get down to it.” He laughed. “And I mean, come on. We don’t even have a cure for  _ cancer _ yet. The pharmaceutical industry  _ needed _ someone like me, and it still does. I’ve had offers and offers to buy my company, but I always say  _ no. _ The world still needs me where I am, and I intend to stay until I’ve made my mark.”

Joe was saved having to answer by Nicky’s return, carrying a glass of dark red wine, which he set in front of Merrick. “Are you two all set to order?” he asked quietly. There was the slightest hint of an accent to his words, which were soft and almost musical. A welcome relief after Merrick’s braying.

Merrick said, “Yes, I do believe we are. I’ll have the Cobb salad.” He chuckled. “Hard to mess up a good Cobb salad, I always say. And Joe here will have—”

Oh  _ hell _ no. “The eggplant lasagna,” Joe interrupted. Nicky gave him a solemn nod and departed again, leaving Joe alone with Merrick.

Merrick took a long drink of wine. “Surprisingly good,” he murmured to himself, and took another.

“How do you know Booker?” Joe asked, trying to steer the conversation away from Big Pharma.

“Through LinkedIn,” Merrick said, leaning back in his chair. “I like to go and scout for talent personally; recruiters are all well and good, but one can’t really  _ trust _ them all the way, not when it comes to highly specialized fields. I was looking for a coder, and I found Sebastien. Didn’t hire him, in the end, but he saw my Arsenal pennant and we got to talking. One takes one’s network where one finds it.”

“Indeed,” Joe said.

“And you?” Merrick asked, folding his hands together. “How did you meet the illustrious Sebastien Le Livre?”

He was clearly not interested, judging from the way his eyes immediately went vacant again, but fuck it, he’d tried to  _ order for Joe. _ “We went to college together,” he said. “Met in the Queer-Straight Alliance meeting first month of freshman year.”

“Ah, the old QSA,” Merrick said, his face twisting ever so slightly.

Joe nodded. Merrick was clearly not worth a really  _ choice _ Booker story, but Joe had a middling one that ended in him and Booker dressed in feather boas and high heels and little else on the university lawn. It took a decent chunk of time to tell, and he was pissed off enough to make Merrick wait before he could talk about himself again.

The story wrapped up as Nicky returned, bearing a plate of steaming eggplant lasagna. Merrick chuckled politely as Nicky set it down. “Yes, that sounds like Sebastien,” Merrick said, which made Joe have to bite back a laugh—the whole point of the story was that Booker’d been high as a kite and acting totally out of character. “Gosh, that smells good,” the man added, nodding at Joe’s plate. He sounded surprised.

“Yours will be out in a moment,” Nicky murmured. He turned to leave, but not before flashing Joe the quickest, least noticeable wink Joe had ever seen. Joe shifted interestedly in his chair.

“Now, Joe,” Merrick said, leaning against the tables again. Joe’s mother would have smacked his elbows off it faster than a blink, Joe reflected. “What did Sebastien tell you about me, to sell you?”

Joe took a drink from his water glass. “He said you had good taste in football,” he said honestly. Really, that should have been the first warning sign. Booker supported  _ Arsenal, _ for fuck’s sake. But Joe had been distracted, attention half on his psychology textbook, and he’d taken the statement at face value. He’d never make that mistake again.

Merrick laughed. “An Arsenal man yourself, are you?”

“God no,” Joe couldn’t help blurting out.

“Oh? Who do you support, then?”

Joe bit back a grin. “Partick Thistle. I like their mascot.”

“Oh.” Merricks lips pursed again. “Right.”

“What did Booker tell you about me?” Joe asked.

Merrick took a sip of wine. “He said you were funny, and a good artist, and putting yourself through school on your own dime.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “And that was a selling point for you?”

“I like a self-made man,” Merrick said, looking Joe over. “I’m one myself, you know, and like attracts like.”

“Right.”

“And what are you looking for in a relationship, Joe?” Merrick took another pull of wine, until the glass was more than half empty.

Joe picked up his water glass too, trying to decide how honest he wanted to be while he drank. “Partnership,” he said finally, setting the glass back down. “I want someone who’s as far in as I am, and willing to be committed.”

“Admirable,” Merrick said. He opened his mouth to go on, but Nicky appeared again to refill Joe’s water glass. “Any word on my salad?” Merrick asked, jokingly polite.

“The chef is still working on it,” Nicky said apologetically. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.” He left again.

On a hunch, Joe checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed since Nicky had brought his lasagna out. The smell was starting to make Joe’s stomach growl. “Sorry,” he started, “but I’m worried about this getting cold. Do you mind if I...” He pointed to his plate.

“No, no, go on,” Merrick said tightly, gesturing. “Wouldn’t want it going to waste. Eat up.” Joe picked up his fork and knife and dug in. “Back to our conversation,” Merrick went on, eyes tracking the forkful of eggplant up to Joe’s mouth. “What do you feel you bring to the table in a relationship?”

Joe swallowed before answering with a laugh, “This is starting to feel like a job interview.”

Merrick laughed. “Well, it is, a little, don’t you think? A first date is very like a job interview. I have a role in my life I want filled, and I’m trying to decide if you’re the one I want to fill it.”

“Job interviews go both ways,” Joe pointed out, loading up a bite of pasta. “What are  _ you _ looking for in a relationship?”

Merrick rubbed his chin, drained his wine, and said, “Well, this may surprise you to hear, but I’m a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist.”

“I had no idea,” Joe said dryly.

Another chuckle. “No doubt, no doubt,” Merrick said. “And really, I don’t see any reason why my personal relationships can’t run along the same lines.”

“Along the same lines as capitalism?” Joe asked, for clarification. He had a sinking feeling about where this conversation was going to go.

“Precisely. Oh, excuse me,” he interrupted himself, reaching out to grab Nicky’s arm as the server passed. “Any update on the food?”

“Nothing yet, I’m afraid,” Nicky said.

“Then can I have some more wine?” Merrick asked, gesturing to his empty glass.

“I’ll be right back with the bottle,” Nicky promised.

Merrick let him go and turned back to Joe. “Where was I?”

“Wanting your personal relationships to run capitalistically,” Joe said, shoveling food into his face a little faster.

“Right.” Merrick adjusted himself in his chair. “It’s really the same principles, when you think about it, romance and business. Each party has something the other wants. It’s a matter of making the right offer to get what you want.”

He paused, clearly waiting for Joe to chime in. “Hmm,” Joe said, picking up his water glass to drink deep.

“Exactly,” Merrick said, leaning forward again. He was starting to sweat a little, perspiration beading across his hairline. “I’m glad we agree.”

Joe had to physically fight his face to keep his eyebrow from lifting. He took another bite of eggplant, and when he swallowed he leaned back in his chair and said, “So what do you bring to the table, Merrick?”

Merrick lowered his head like a bull, giving Joe an unexpectedly hungry look. “I bring the finer things in life, Joe.”

Now Joe did raise an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Merrick spread his hands wide. “I’m a very powerful man. I have connections, I have influence, and I have,” he paused to chuckle to himself, “an awful lot of disposable income.”

Thankfully there wasn’t very much food left on Joe’s plate, because his stomach twisted. He pushed the plate away and checked his phone. Twenty minutes. “Money’s what you bring to a relationship?”

“It’s just like you said, Joe,” Merrick said. “Partnership. I’m a very busy man, with a lot of stressors in my life. I need a soft place to land at the end of the day, someone who can relax me, distract me when I need distracting. Affection, companionship. In return, I can bring the full force of the most successful pharmaceutical company in existence. In addition to my own personal charms, of course.”

“Of course,” Joe said.

Nicky appeared, like an angel from Christian heaven, with a pitcher of water and, finally, Merrick’s Cobb salad. Joe surreptitiously thumbed his phone screen on: twenty-three minutes exactly. He threw Nicky a glance as Nicky refilled his glass; Nicky winked at him again.

“My wine?” Merrick asked, picking up his fork and sticking it into the salad.

“Oh, of course,” Nicky said. “Just a moment.” He vanished.

“Gosh, the service in here is  _ terrible, _ isn’t it,” Merrick said conspiratorially, before shoving an overloaded forkful of salad into his mouth. “I could eat a horse. No offense,” he added hastily, with his mouth full.

Joe internally rolled his eyes. “None taken.”

Merrick stuffed half the (large) salad down his gullet in just a few minutes. It was almost astonishing. Finally, though, he took a break to hopefully tilt the last dregs of his wine into his mouth, and then looked at Joe. “Well?” he said, smiling congenially. “You’ve heard my pitch. Do we have an agreement?”

There was a piece of egg stuck to his chin. Joe took a deep breath and let it out. “I’d rather die,” he said.

Merrick’s face clouded. “What did you say?”

Nicky appeared, still without a bottle of wine, but clutching a check sleeve. “Here you go,” he said, setting it down between Merrick and his salad bowl. He turned to Joe. “Can I help you with your coat?”

“I’d love that,” Joe said, standing. Nicky unhooked the jacket from the back of Joe’s chair as Merrick spluttered, and Joe shrugged into it. Joe turned to Merrick, whose face was red enough to be alarming, if only Joe cared. “Don’t contact me,” he said. “I’m going to murder Booker.” With that, he walked away, not stopping until he was out the door and around the corner, where he paused and carefully poked his head back to the restaurant window.

Merrick was standing too, arguing heatedly with Nicky, who might have been made of stone for all he reacted. Merrick shouted something and pointed, and Nicky left, returning with a tall woman in a black tank top with a very butch pixie cut. Merrick tried shouting at her for a few minutes, but she seemed to be cut from the same cloth as Nicky, and eventually Merrick slumped and produced a credit card, which she swept away as Nicky began clearing their plates.

Joe ducked back around the corner as Merrick stormed out of the restaurant. Once he was in a cab and motoring safely away, he pulled forty quid out of his wallet and went back inside.

Nicky was wiping down their table, and straightened as Joe came back in. “I could kiss you,” Joe blurted out, coming to rest in front of him.

Unaccountably, Nicky blushed, a beautiful pink spray over what was admittedly an impressive nose. “It was the least I could do,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I hope I didn’t get you in trouble with your manager.”

“Andy? No.” Nicky shook his head. “Not bringing him more wine was her idea.”

Joe grinned. “Brilliant.” He extended the forty pounds. “I know tipping’s not really a thing in this country, but you’ve earned it.”

Nicky put a cool hand on his wrist and lowered Joe’s arm. “Andy put a thirty percent gratuity on his bill,” he said, smiling slightly. “Keep your money.”

Joe slipped the bills back into his pocket and bit his lip. “Then can I give you my number?”

Nicky’s smile widened. “That, I will accept.”

Joe left the restaurant with a skip in his step, Nicky’s number in his phone, and a date for the next night. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Kingsley, the Partick Thistle mascot.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Partick_Thistle_F.C.#/media/File:KingsleyMascot.jpg)
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://thewalrus-said.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thewalrus_said)!


End file.
